When I discovered at last it was ‘just epilepsy’ (there’s a phrase you don’t imagine yourself saying) I was incredibly relieved. I’ve been picking myself up since, learning what I can do, and what I can’t. There is a period of adjustment while you get your meds balanced, for example. I’m now settling down to a new lease of life that I’m very content about. But while the crisis was happening, boy did some deadlines get screwed.
The Gaunt novel, Salvation’s Reach, had to slide back and miss its expected autumn slot. There was just no way it was going to happen. But Black Library editor Christian Dunn got chatting to me to see if we could devise a stonking hit of Sabbat Worlds loveliness for the readers to tide them over.
This book is the result. I’ve invited other Black Library writers whose work I admire to contribute stories set in the Sabbat Worlds, perhaps even touching on strands or characters established in or suggested by the storylines in my books. I’ve also added a brand new Gaunt’s Ghosts novella to round things out.
I am blown away by the stories various writers have given back to me, by the sheer creative energy they’ve poured into bits of my haphazard world building. It is a great honour and privilege to commend them to you, the reader.
So, join me for a Sabbat Worlds road trip. I call shotgun. Believe me, we’re going to need one.
Dan Abnett
Maidstone, May 2010
Graham needs little introduction to Black Library readers. The author of the Ultramarines series and of Horus Heresy epics including the New York Times bestseller A Thousand Sons, he is the master of 40K hugeness and fury, and a writer I unfailingly refer to as ‘mighty’ when I talk about him in my blogs. Graham and I have evolved an enjoyably close way of working in tandem for the Horus books, which he described as me ‘knocking shots into the air for him to smash’. This seemed to pay dividends with Horus Rising and False Gods, and will again with the parasitic twins A Thousand Sons and Prospero Burns.
Graham has taken as his starting point Double Eagle, the air combat novel I wrote a few years back. I had a splendid time writing it, and it was something I’d wanted to do for a long time. Unashamedly, I set out to do a sort of ‘Battle of Britain’ in 40K terms. It has earned a lot of fans (including, I’m delighted to say, some Luftwaffe crewmen, from whom I have a standing invitation to visit a German airbase – must get around to doing that), to such an extent that I’ve been planning a sequel for a long time. I know what it’s called (Interceptor City, since you asked) and I know what happens, I just haven’t had the time to write it yet. It keeps getting pushed back. When Graham said he wanted to write something involving the characters featured in Double Eagle, I was all for it. I think this story will go some way towards soothing the jonesing of Double Eagle fans.
Double Eagle principally featured the Phantine XX squadron, flying Thunderbolts in defence of the Sabbat World Enothis, but we also met the elite, privileged squadron of combat aces called the Apostles. Larice Asche, once of the Phantine, managed to win a place in this exclusive club. But exactly how long will she last? And how much glory is there when battle honour and status comes with approximately zero life expectancy?
Dan Abnett
APOSTLE'S CREED
(Graham McNeill)
The Thunderbolt cut through the frigid air like an ivory dagger, trailing white contrails from the leading edges of its wings. Following the manoeuvres of Apostle Seven, Larice Asche executed a perfect quarter roll before inverting and pulling into a shallow turn. She took her time, not pushing the aircraft. After three months strapped down in the hold of a Munitorum mass conveyer, it was never a good idea to ask too much of a plane until you’d given it some time to stretch its wings and get used to being in the air again.
She watched the crisp movements of Apostle Seven through the canopy, a cream-coloured Thunderbolt that hung in the air like an angel basking in the sunlight. Dario Quint was at its controls, his flawless stickwork apparently effortless. Larice knew that wasn’t the case. Quint had logged thousands of hours and flown hundreds of sorties to hone his skill.
‘Level flight, Apostle Five,’ said Quint. ‘There’s murderous shear coming off the Breakers, so use vectors to compensate if you go in close.’
‘Understood, Seven,’ responded Larice. It was the longest single sentence Quint had said to her since Seekan had invited her to join the Apostles back on Enothis. She’d tried to engage him in conversation aboard the Rosencranz, en route to Amedeo, but he’d always ignored her. Not in a way she could get mad about, and not with any rudeness. More like he chose not to engage because he didn’t know how to.
Despite Quint’s warning, the air at nine thousand metres was calm, and it was a simple matter to stay on his wing. Larice scanned the auspex inbetween craning her neck to look around for the telltale glint of sunlight on metal that might indicate a hostile contact.
Nothing. The skies were clear. She was disappointed.
They’d already made kills today, an intercept with some Tormentors returning from a bombing raid on Coriana, foremost city of the Ice, but that tussle had been too easy to be properly interesting. The bombers had already shed their payloads, but that didn’t matter. Bombers that didn’t make it back to their base wouldn’t return with fresh ordnance to crack the Ice.
Cordiale had always said it was bad luck to tangle with the enemy on a shakeout flight, but his luck had run out over the Zophonian Sea, so what did he know? In any case, a Thunderbolt was a weapon of war, a lethal sabre that, once drawn, needed to taste blood before being sheathed.
The Tormentors had been rushing through the valleys of the Breakers, hoping their speed, low flight and the lousy auspex bounces from the peaks would hide them from Imperial retribution.
No such luck.
Apostle Seven had found them, though she had no idea how, since they were running with their auspex silent, and had to rely on Operations to guide them to intercepts. Seekan once told her that Quint, the ace of aces, had an innate sense for where bats were hiding, and she hadn’t questioned it.
The bombers had top cover, a trio of Hell Talons, enough to give most pilots pause, but they were the Apostles. Quint took a line on them before firing up his auspex.
‘Turn and burn,’ he said, his clipped, economical tones muffled by his mask.
His Thunderbolt stood on its wing and dived for the deck.
Coming in high from the east, she and Quint pounced on the Hell Talons, and Larice had relished the panic she’d seen in their desperate scatter. Quint had splashed two bats before they even realised the direction of the attack. He raked the Talons with las before punching through their formation and leaving the last for Larice.
The bat broke high and she turned into it, anticipating its next move and mashing the firing stud on her stick. She had a good angle of deflection, and her bolts tore the bat to burning wreckage. Hauling on the stick, she pulled into a shallow dive to engage the Tormenters themselves.
Quint had already gutted the first bomber and was lining up on his second, viffing and jinking to avoid the turret fire that seemed unable to pin him in place. Larice turned into the third bomber and raked it end to end with her quads. It dropped from the sky, almost cut in two. Pulling a high-g turn, she closed on the last bomber. The pilot was heading for the deck, trying to gain speed, but that was just stupid. There was no way he could outrun her.